Jane Bonander (4 page)

This nurse defied every quality he’d requested.
Obedient
was obviously a foreign term to her. Her flame-colored hair challenged any notion of a bland temperament, and she had the vocabulary of a guttersnipe.

He opened the top drawer of his desk and rummaged through it, searching for David’s letter. The door opened, and his housekeeper poked her head in.

“Are you ready to see her?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Alice,” he muttered under his breath. He rested his elbows on the desk and waited. The urchin entered his study, head bowed and hands clasped in front of her as though she were going to the gallows. Tristan didn’t soften. He motioned to a chair in front of his desk. She sat, gazing at the high wall of book-lined shelves behind him.

“Miss—”

“Odell. Dinah Odell.”

She was the size of a bird; her mop of unruly red curls gave her the appearance of an exotic parrot. In spite of that, her porcelain skin was pale and perfect and her heart-shaped mouth pink and inviting. Her gown was putrid, however, as if its maker couldn’t decide whether to dye it brown or green, so had opted for both.

“What qualifies you to care for my sister?”

“I…I.” She met his glare, then lowered her eyes.

He tried to ignore her titian-red hair, which was so vibrant it made every other color in the room pale by comparison. “Certainly the question wasn’t too difficult for you.”

She studied him briefly. “No, I—”

“Well, perhaps this will be easier for you to answer. How long were you employed at Trenway?”

She lifted a delicate, yet, he was certain, stubborn chin. “I was at Trenway for a year.”

“What makes you qualified to care for my sister?” he repeated.

This time her gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve been among women with many problems, Mr. Fletcher. Women who huddled in corners all day and cried at night. Women who banged their heads against a wall all day and howled at night. Women who tried to kill me. Women who soiled themselves, first out of fear, then out of apathy. I’m certain some of these women didn’t come in that way. It’s more than likely the asylum itself aided in their insanity.” A fetching blush stole into her cheeks as her indignation mounted.

He stood, shoving his chair back, and went to the window, her words touching some private place inside him. He’d been in college when he discovered that the “school” Emily had been sent to was an asylum. She’d been there for years, until Zelda died. Then Tristan moved heaven and earth to bring Emily home, where she’d had good care, at last. Alice’s sister, Crystal, had moved in and cared for her until the day Crystal died from a stroke. That had been two years before. Since then, he’d had a succession of nurses whose bedside manners were atrocious and whose sense of compassion was nonexistent.

After learning where Emily had been all those years, Tristan visited a number of east-coast asylums in his quest to learn something more about her illness. Though her body had developed, her mind had not. Not completely. She wasn’t simple. He often saw flashes of brilliance. But she had mercurial mood changes, some with such violence that her previous nurses had tied her to her bed. Tristan wouldn’t tolerate such treatment. There had to be another answer.

He’d visited Trenway on occasion, but hadn’t seen anything that had shocked him, even though it was all disturbing. Of course, it was possible he wasn’t allowed to see the most severe cases, even with David’s introduction.

“What else can you tell me?”

“Places like Trenway are places of punishment, Mr. Fletcher, not help. Though I’ve never been inside a prison, I’d venture to say that convicts are treated far better than any patient at Trenway Insane Asylum.”

He turned, pinning her with a hard stare. “I’ve visited a few asylums, Trenway included, and I can’t say I found them pleasant, but—” He shook his head. “Surely they can’t be as bad as that.” He didn’t want them to be. After all, that would be admitting that Emily had suffered.

Dinah Odell sat calmly before him, no longer fidgeting with her clothing. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You are, after all, a man.”

His eyebrows shot up. “My gender has something to do with my ability to understand?”

“In this case, yes.” Her answer was quick and decisive.

He returned to his chair and rested his elbows on the padded arms. “Tell me about some of the
good
things that went on at Trenway.”

She uttered a harsh laugh, then turned away. He caught a slight trembling of her mouth before she pressed her lips together, and her throat worked repeatedly, as though she were having trouble swallowing.

“Trenway Asylum has no goodness about it, sir. It was created by the devil, and the devil, as we both know, is a man.”

Tristan digested her words and almost groaned. Oh, God, she was one of those. While in the east, he’d learned of the Seneca Falls hens and old maids who complained that men could do as they pleased, while women had no rights. It had sounded preposterous, especially since Zelda Fletcher had ruled the roost with an iron hand, and his father, bless his gallant soul, had never had a moment’s peace because of it.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, blocking out the vision of this frail, porcelain-skinned, titian-haired harpy.

“Did you know, sir, that fifteen years ago, Susan B. Anthony helped a mother and her child escape from the woman’s husband? He had previously committed her to an insane asylum, merely because he wanted to get rid of her. Miss Anthony likened the plight of some hospitalized women to that of fugitive slaves.”

This time, Tristan’s groan was audible. He had heard a few rumblings now and then on his visits of sane women claiming to have been put into asylums by their husbands. But that notion was insane in itself. Surely no one believed such ridiculous ravings. Now, however, wasn’t the time to argue with her.

“Don’t attack me, Miss Odell. I’m not your enemy.” She wouldn’t work out. She was too young, too cheeky. She had a fiery temper, and was about as obedient as a nest of hornets. She’d be too much trouble.

Making his decision, he leaned into his chair. “I’ll see that your fare is paid back to New York.”

She sat bolt upright. “What?”

He was exhausted. Emily had kept him up most of the night, weeping against his shoulder. He couldn’t get her to tell him what was wrong. She’d been in the low phase of her moods for weeks. God, the frustration he felt at not being able to help her weighed on him like a ton of mud.

“Just what part of the sentence wasn’t clear to you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, his weariness making him lose patience.

Across from him, she uttered a shaky sigh. “Mr. Fletcher, I’ll be perfectly honest with you. I’ve already thought about fleeing. I’d be long gone by now, but your hounds were guarding the door, and I was afraid to leave. I’d almost gotten my nerve to try when your housekeeper fetched me.”

Tristan raised one eyebrow. “I’m sorry to hear that. It would have saved both of us this painful interlude.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” Her voice was firm, brooking no nonsense. “I’m not what you think I am. I mean,” she amended, “I’m not a wild-eyed man-hater, but I met many women in the asylum who appeared to be as sane as you and I.”

Her eyes filled with pain. “They had been put there by their brothers, fathers, or guardians who wanted to get rid of them, and by their husbands for purposes I can’t even imagine. These men didn’t appear to need a reason to incarcerate them, Mr. Fletcher. Trust me, I know first hand that these poor women could do nothing about it.” There was a catch in her voice, arid she bit down on her lower lip.

“I… I just thought it was important for you to know that I’m grateful to be away from there. I’d like a chance to prove that I’m qualified to do this job.”

Tristan studied the color that stained her cheeks and the silent appeal in her eyes. Even if he let her stay, he was certain she couldn’t handle Emily. Women with far more experience hadn’t accomplished it, how could this little bird?

“I don’t believe in punishing patients no matter what they’ve done or what they do while they are in my care.
I’m really very indulgent, Mr. Fletcher. I’d like a chance.”

Her professed indulgence would be sorely tested with Emily. Swearing under his breath, he dragged his fingers through his hair. Something about her bothered him. True, she was an intrepid thing, appearing to know her business and willing to work at it, but there was something else. Of course, she had none of the qualities he wanted. That was probably it. She would blend into the background about as well as a camel cutting cake at a wedding reception.

A sudden emotion, one akin to pity, found its way into his chest, but he stopped it before it reached his heart. Women and their theatrics. Why in the hell were they so good at chipping away at a man’s armor?

His thoughts automatically went to his ex-fiancée, and his stomach boiled like acid. Coralee had played the sympathetic heroine, the woman who would live with him and share the burden of Emily. Until she realized it would mean leaving Boston and moving to the mountains of California. What good would it do if none of her society friends were around to watch her courageous performance?

“And… and I’ve come all this way.”

Rubbing his face with his hands, Tristan shrugged off thoughts of the devious Coralee. “I’ll give you a trial month. If, after that, I see no progress in Emily’s behavior, we’ll work out the details of your departure.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, appearing to relax.

“Have you any questions for me?”

“Just one. What is your sister suffering from?”

His eyebrows went up. “You weren’t told?”

A deeper flush crept into her cheeks and she twisted the ribbon at her waist. “Only that she needed care.”

He found it odd that David wouldn’t have told her, but he guessed it could happen. “My sister is thirty-two years of age, Miss Odell. More times than not, she has the mannerisms of a child. Her moods are mercurial. I will admit that she has occasional fits of temper. Sometimes she appears reasonably happy, but most often she does not. She cries for no reason. If we don’t watch her, she will go days without eating. It seems, Miss Odell, that my sister has the same emotions other people do, except that they are extreme.”

“Has she ever been evaluated by a doctor?”

The sheafs of papers from analyzing doctors filled two boxes in the attic. “Of course.” He gave her an ominous smile. “Which is precisely why she’s here, and no longer in an institution. She was in one for a number of years. Upon her mother’s death, I saw to it that Emily was returned home. I may find it hard to believe the things you’ve told me about Trenway, but under the best of circumstances, I still wouldn’t want my sister locked up there.”

The little bird’s eyes filled with apprehension. Perhaps he’d be rid of her sooner than he’d thought.

“Now, please find Mrs. Linberg and send her in here. Dinner is at seven.”

Anxious for her to leave, Tristan reached for his reading glasses and turned to his papers. She dredged up in him a vulnerability he’d thought was long gone. Surely that was all it was. How else could a man feel toward a woman who was no more than a girl and had as many curves as a fence post?

She was different, he’d give her that. After Crystal’s death, and before he’d thought to ask for David’s help, he’d always hired older nurses. Nurses with years of experience. In theory, that was wise. In reality, it wasn’t, for those women had been tired. Worn out. Lacking in patience and compassion. Most of them had wanted a soft job, one that would let them ease into retirement.

Mrs. Linberg popped her head around the door. “Ya, Tristan? What do you want?”

He held up an empty file. “Have you seen the letter from Dr. Richards? The one explaining about the new nurse?”

Frowning, she crossed to the desk, adjusting the front of her dress over her generous bosom. “Ya, sure. I put it in a safe place.”

Tristan gave her a wry smile.
Ya, sure
always came out sounding like
yasure.
She’d been with the family for as long as he could remember, yet he’d never gotten used to her thick Swedish accent. “Which would be where, Alice?”

Alice Linberg pursed her lips and touched the empty file with her gnarled finger. “It ain’t in the folder?”

He shook his head. “It’s not here, and it’s not anywhere in my desk. I’ve checked.” From the time he was young, he remembered Zelda railing at the housekeeper for her forgetfulness. She’d always been a bit scatterbrained, and it had driven Zelda crazy. Not to be in control of every facet of one’s life was a sin, according to Zelda Fletcher. Thoughts of her automatically made him tight jawed.

“
Uff dah.
”
Alice Linberg tucked a wayward strand of white hair into the braid at the back of her neck, then straightened the apron at her waist. “Now, let me see.” She tapped her finger against her lips, then shrugged.

“I’ll think of it. It’s important, ya?”

“Yes, but not crucial, Alice. Life as we know it doesn’t hang in the balance.” He knew the woman well. She’d wake up out of a dead sleep and know exactly where she put it, although it might take her a while.

In the meantime, he’d keep an eye on Dinah Odell. He massaged his neck. He wanted some peace around here. Were it up to him, he’d care for Emily himself, but there were too many other things that required his attention. Time didn’t allow him to give her everything she needed.

He should have mentioned the orphans to Miss Odell, but he had a feeling he’d heaped enough on her plate, for the time being, at any rate. Although, it might have been exactly the news she needed to send her back to civilization.

He also hadn’t made mention of the marriage arrangement. Surprisingly, neither had she. Once again, he reviewed the qualities she possessed that he hadn’t asked for. If the situation weren’t so serious, he’d have thought Dr. David Richards, old friend and college roommate, had played an elaborate trick on him.

Dinah closed the door to her room and slumped into a chair. He’d been willing to let her go! And, she thought, wrinkling her nose, she’d convinced him to let her stay. She was a bigger fool than she’d ever imagined and she hadn’t even had to work at it.

Too late, she realized he’d innocently used an old ploy on her that had always worked for her father. Insist that little Dinah couldn’t do something because she wasn’t big enough, strong enough, smart enough, or fast enough, and Little Dinah nearly fell all over herself to prove she could. Even if she hadn’t wanted to. Now, she wanted to leave, and Tristan Fletcher would have let her had it not been for her big mouth and stiff pride.

She let out a whoosh of air and studied the room. Gloomy, like the rest of the house. Faded bird-and-flower wallpaper clung precariously to the panels, pulling away at the corners near the ceiling. The walls were covered with interesting frippery, however, like needlepoint flowers, the intricate colors and shadows so alive, they nearly leaped from the oval frames. A funereal painting hung above the desk, the dead colors hauntingly appealing.

Another ominous painting was suspended on a wire over the brass headboard of the bed. Though the canvas was filled with trees and flowers, the center held a demon tree, large, purple, and grotesque, that appeared to devour everything around it. It was an ugly thing, certainly not something she wanted over her head while she slept.

If she was staying, that painting wasn’t. She removed it and shoved it under the bed. Shivering, she reached for the knitted stole that had been at the bottom of Daisy’s valise and wrapped it around her shoulders.

A light hung on a sconce between the windows, the glass thick with dust. A colorful parlor lamp sat beside a Bible on a table near the bed. A dry smile touched the corners of Dinah’s mouth. No doubt previous nurses had found it necessary to sink to their knees in prayer and pour over Scripture in order to survive Tristan Fletcher’s arrogant orders. Or maybe, she thought, her stomach pitching downward, to survive his sister’s precarious moods. The earlier fluttering of a curtain reminded Dinah that whoever this Emily was, she was aware of her arrival. At least she presumed it was Emily.

Dinah rose and crossed to the window, folding back the shutters. It had begun to rain. Thick, wet droplets pelted the windows. The trees swayed in the wind, and the thick boughs of the evergreens bowed low, heavy with water. A sick feeling coated her stomach.

Sweet Mary, what was she doing here? She hadn’t even met Emily Fletcher yet, and she wanted to flee like a rat from a sinking ship. Her vivid imagination had run away with her, creating problems that hadn’t even surfaced. But, with her luck, they probably would. Her lips curved into a self-deprecating smile.

Resting her forehead on the glass, she closed her eyes. She should be ashamed of herself. She must never forget what Daisy had done for her. Anything was better than the asylum.
Thank you, Daisy. Thank you for my life. I won’t disappoint you, I promise.
Thoughts of her last moments with Daisy both saddened and sickened her, and she felt tears of remorse.

“I’m sorry, Daisy, I’m so sorry.”

“Having second thoughts already?”

She swung around, unaware that he’d been at the door. With quick fingers she swiped at the moisture beneath her eyes. “Don’t you believe in knocking?”

He tilted his head, as if bowing, yet not. He held a cloth-covered tray. “I did. You didn’t answer.” His gaze wandered over the room, stopping on her. He appeared to study her. It did odd things to her insides, things she’d never experienced before, but knew existed. Her pulse fluttered. Her breath quickened. She looked at the floor, unwilling to analyze her feelings.

She had blessed Daisy every day for creating new ways to make her unappealing during her incarceration. Her favorite had been when she’d convinced the lascivious guards that Dinah’s red hair meant she was a witch, and if they molested her, their doodles would shrivel up between their legs and fall off. Daisy had assured her that no man would risk losing his doodle.

Dinah’s mouth quirked into a smile. Until her stay in the asylum, she had never imagined a man’s private parts, much less thought of them by name. If nothing else, the past year had been an education.

“Something amuses you?” He crossed the room and placed the tray on the desk.

She liked the way he walked, all fluid and graceful, like a panther or some such wild thing. The scene in the tree played in her mind, the beauty of his sculpted chest and arms swimming in her brain.

“Not really.” The tray was inviting, no matter what lay beneath the white napkin.

He caught her perusal. “Alice—Mrs. Linberg—thought you might like something to eat.” A shadow crossed his face. “Dinner will be late.”

In spite of her certainty that she could not eat, Dinah’s mouth watered and her stomach grumbled loudly.

“Will I meet Emily soon?” She walked to the desk. Her stomach continued to growl, anticipating what was beneath the cloth. She lifted the corner, exposing a plate of rolls with shiny crusts and a dish each of butter and jam. She swallowed the rush of saliva in her mouth.

“Perhaps she’ll join us for dinner.”

Dinah dropped the corner of the cloth and turned toward him, anxious to have him gone so she could eat. “I look forward to meeting her.”

His face was without expression. “I’ll leave you to rest, then.”

When he’d gone, Dinah sat at the desk, whipped off the cloth and gazed at the food. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t eaten since she’d left Trenway. The food on the train was a treat to her. She had squirreled away what she couldn’t eat, savoring it at odd times, relishing the fact that it wasn’t moldy or maggot ridden. And no one rifled through her things looking for her stash as they had at Trenway.

She split a roll with her thumbs, slathered it with butter and jam, and bit into it, closing her eyes with pleasure. But as delicious as it was, she couldn’t finish it. Her stomach wouldn’t let her. She wrapped what was left on the tray in a napkin and slid it into a desk drawer. It would give her something to nibble on before she went to bed.

She wandered around the room feeling nervous and short of breath, when it occurred to her that she wasn’t a prisoner. She strode to the door, flung it open, and stared out into the dark hallway. Her nose twitched at the musty air; it didn’t bother her. After a year of the worst odors any human should have to smell, a musty house was like a garden of flowers. She listened, hearing only muted sounds coming from downstairs. Dimly lit sconces flickered macabre shadows on the walls, tossing feeble light over the staircase.

Dinah counted three other doors besides hers. In the farthest recesses of the landing, another stairway disappeared into the darkness that was presumably the attic. Again, as before, a shiver stole up her spine, and she rubbed her arms with her hands.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as a gust of air rustled her skirt from behind, pressing it briefly against her legs. She turned in time to see the door across from her own close with a quiet click. What passed for a cynical smile touched her lips, then was gone. Emily Fletcher, no doubt. Her mind filled with questions about the woman, and she was both eager and afraid to meet her. Eager, because in her heart she knew she could help the woman, and afraid, because she was in over her head. She smirked again. What else was new?

Turning to the banister, she ran her fingers along the wood and pressed her knee between the elegantly carved balusters. The stairway itself was much like the one in her home in New York: dark cherrywood with a cluster of balusters forming the newel post. She’d slid down the highly polished banister a time or two, much to her dear, sweet mother’s mortification. And Charlotte’s. Charlotte had always acted like a lady, even when they’d been children.

Memories brought a sudden rush of homesickness upon her, a feeling that surprised her. During her year at Trenway, thoughts of home had only angered her, for Uncle Martin had blatantly taken up residence there.

A current of air ruffled her hem again, and she forced herself not to turn. Something small and sharp struck her shoulder, and she inhaled in surprise as a stinging sensation penetrated her skin. The door closed as before, with a quiet click behind her.

Bewildered, Dinah squatted and moved her hand over the carpet. She pricked her finger and gasped again, drawing it back and putting it in her mouth. With her thumb and forefinger she gingerly picked up the missile and brought it under the dim light of the wall sconce.

Frowning, she studied it. Only a piece of paper, wadded up hard, yet… Another shiver shuddered through her, for in the center, held in place by the paper, was a nail with a sharp point.

Dinah stared at the door behind which the infamous Emily lurked. So, she liked playing games. Dinah could play games, too. Why, during the past year she’d become a master at it. She wondered if this was how Emily initiated all new nurses. If so, the job would be interesting, she’d give her that. It would be anything but routine. Suddenly, for no sane reason, Dinah felt up to the task.

The fireplace in the great room was open on both sides. Stones framed the fire, going all the way to the ceiling. There was no mantle on which to display pretty vases, clocks, or plates. No ornately carved woodwork to give it a civilized air. Only cold, hard stone. Dinah huddled deeper into the wing chair.

The storm still raged; wind buffeted the windows with sheets of rain. Shuddering, she curled her feet under her, her gaze darting to the shadowy corners of the room. The place had the charm of a mausoleum. More wild animal heads adorned the walls, all appearing to watch her no matter which way she moved her head. The moose was particularly unappealing, for he had nostrils the size of gopher holes.

But the doe … She was certain the doe was sad, for her big, black eyes were beseeching. And why not? She’d probably had a fawn, hidden away to keep it safe. Dinah wondered if it had survived when the mother was killed. Thoughts of her own mother’s death brought a band of sharp pains cinching her heart. No one should have to live without a mother.

The doe’s plaintive eyes continued to study her. “I know how you’re feeling, you pretty thing, but I’m not to blame for your demise.”

The grandfather clock struck, and Dinah jumped, for the room had been unnaturally quiet. Except, of course, for the haunting sounds that she was certain only she heard. The creaks, the moans, the howling of the wind as it searched for entrance. As she’d rested before dinner, staring at the ceiling, she swore she could hear someone in the attic, moving about. It was probably her imagination, or perhaps even a mouse, but had she not already encountered Emily on the stairs, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the sister actually were up there, chained to the wall.

The clock struck eight times and Dinah clucked impatiently. Tristan Fletcher had excused himself after dinner, but had asked that she wait for him.

Dinner had been another uncomfortable event. Her year at Trenway had erased the breeding, deportment, and fine manners that her mother had instilled within her. As a patient, she’d had to protect her plate. She’d found herself doing that tonight, wrapping her arms on either side of it to keep it safe. She’d also tentatively taken a biscuit, half expecting Tristan Fletcher to snatch it from her, the way her fellow patients so often had stolen her food at mealtime at the asylum.

With a sense of relief, she touched the bulge in the deep pocket of Daisy’s brown dress. If she forced herself to eat a little more at each meal, she hoped to stretch her stomach. She would need her strength for this job, of that she was certain.

She’d enjoyed watching Tristan Fletcher eat. Though he had a healthy appetite, he hadn’t bolted his food. She snorted a laugh. Lord, this obsession with food simply had to stop.

She thought, instead, about his firm, square jaw and his sharp cheekbones, his thick, black hair and his wide shoulders. As compelling as he was, he had sad eyes. She hadn’t seen him really smile.

Spying a picture on the far wall, she stood and crossed the room, studying it as she got closer. It was of a young woman. Again, her neck hairs prickled. Instinctively she knew this was Emily, even though she was very different from her brother. He was dark, she was pale. His hair was almost blue-black; hers was golden. And Tristan Fletcher was tall, broad shouldered, and muscular; his sister was dainty and fine boned. And hauntingly beautiful.

Dinah heard a soft sound behind her, and before she could turn, she was smacked on the head. She’d barely gotten her equilibrium when someone landed on her back, causing her to lose her balance. She clawed at the arm that pressed against her throat. Sharp fingernails dug into the thin flesh on top of her hand, drawing blood. Her heart hammered and her pulse raced, but she couldn’t scream, for the arm pressed harder, preventing her from making any sound.

She stumbled forward, stepping on the hem of her gown. The searing noise of tearing fabric filled her ears as she tottered toward the hearth, swinging from side to side, in hopes of ridding herself of the weight on her back. She reached behind her, grabbed a thick braid, and tugged, eliciting a keening scream from her aggressor. A free hand seized Dinah’s short curls, yanking hard enough to cause tears of pain.

Black spots danced before her eyes as she continued to claw at her neck. Suddenly she was free. Dragging in gulps of air, she turned, clutching her hand to her throat.

Emily Fletcher stood across from her, her tiny bosom heaving as heavily as Dinah’s own. They squared off, neither speaking. The woman’s eyes were huge, and her fists were balled at her sides, as if she were waiting for Dinah to retaliate. Whatever Dinah had expected, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t a woman no bigger than a child with the strength of a burly asylum matron.

“Did you know,” Emily began, fighting for breath, “that an aardvark and an aardwolf are two completely unrelated animals?”

For one stunned minute, Dinah simply stared. Then she nearly laughed, for she understood. And that understanding frightened her more than anything. Whatever Emily Fletcher was, she wasn’t stupid. She could very well be insane, but insanity took many forms. And insanity didn’t mean stupidity. In fact, she would be wise to remember that some of the most brilliant people in history were labeled insane.